


Pieces Lost and Found

by Nanosilver



Category: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Romance, Tiefling Baroness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 15:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanosilver/pseuds/Nanosilver
Summary: Tristian feels broken after the events at the abandoned sanctuary and doesn't know how to reclaim the things he's lost.Takes place after Betrayer's Flight, but before Saving Grace.





	Pieces Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> 'Sup.  
True to my ambition to fill this game's fanfic section with cute mushiness, I've written another... thing. My Tiefling baroness Zahi again. She's a bard, so there'll be bardy things.  
Spoilers for the game up to Betrayer's Flight obviously. 
> 
> Have fun!

If there is peace to be had beyond the grasp of Nyrissa’s cold hands, he doesn’t find it.

They don’t share a chamber, not yet. He’s not ready, and Zahi, for all her impulsiveness, all her inspired energy, grants him the greatest gift of her love.

Patience.

She is as Tieflings often are; beholden to the infernal and abyssal energies that touched them, but in the sweetest of ways. That strong heart of hers rests entirely on her sleeve, beating with the wild energy of a soul forever in motion.

All the kinder is thus her willingness to wait for him as he stumbles through this darkness he brought entirely on himself, not for the loss of his sight, but the past shadows that now haunt him. Two decades of enslavement, of service to a darker soul; a time that has left him… fractured. Not in pieces, but missing, _wanting_ shards of himself to return to him. His lost divinity is but an echo, yet a larger loss is his inner peace. Unbalanced, he finds himself. Changed.

It’s his divinity he chased, and in doing so, he destroyed the thing that made him worthy of it. If he ever was. He knows now that his goddess punished him for his pride, his _arrogance_, and he has no one but himself to blame; yet coming to terms with this truth is a challenge still too great. Perhaps he never will. Perhaps he is too shattered to mend.

The concept of a broken soul would confuse his old self, a being that could be lesser than itself and yet somehow be repaired.

Or not, as not all broken things can return to being whole.

He wonders if he can.

If not…

The frightening thoughts catch up to him at night, when nothing keeps his mind from filling the silence with his worries and fear. Fear has made him a weaker being, a selfish one. He knows. Its tight grasp on his mind still doesn’t ease.

His dreams _frighten_ him. There’s darkness in them, and curses, and the memories of his failures. Images of Nyrissa, who once spoke to him in his sleep; scenes of the vengeful Nymph coming to punish him for his betrayal. Worse, perhaps- no, not perhaps. Definitely worse, _far_ worse, are the nightmares of Zahi.

Dying. Bleeding, wounded, just as his powers leave him, no magic springs from his fingertips, no energy pours from his words. Shadows come to devour the remaining essence of her, and her soul is forever lost to the great beyond.

Had he known that loving a being so fragile could bear so much pain… no, he would’ve loved her still. He can’t _not_ love her. It remains something he scarcely understands, but he learns as the days go by, slowly – perhaps too slow. Perhaps…

She’s already waited so long. And yet he asks her to wait even longer.

Waiting seems fine when time is eternal, but mortal lives are finite. It frightens him, that he may run out of time to…

To what? Be with her? Isn’t he already?

It makes no sense. Nothing does.

He inhales until it _hurts_ with the sting of frigid air. Spring approaches, but at night, the cold hand of winter still grasps the city and when the fear doesn’t leave him, he wanders the streets until dawn, passes the sleeping stores, the empty stalls, the shuttered windows. This city she raised with her own hands, torn from the mud and dirt and the cold hands of her enemies.

Mire’s End, she called it. An end to the darkness of the Stolen Lands, her barony – now her kingdom. Narlreach. He’d been here for its naming, though it was never his place. Now he’s councilor again, a role nobody questions, at least not openly.

He feels undeserving of this city and its people, but whenever his thoughts drift into the darkness around him, only silence calls back.

… yet tonight, he hears the distant sound of a flute.

What?

For a moment, his aimless steps falter. His vision may have left him, but his hearing remains acute. A flute at this time of night… past midnight he senses, for his former connection to his goddess still grants him permanent awareness of the sun’s position. In the absence of an aim, following the sound seems as reasonable as any other course of action. The melody is soft and somber, every note a drawn-out wail. With every new key, the feeling of melancholy creeps further up his spine, lodging into the baleful emptiness between his ribs.

A minute passes and then many more by as he wanders the streets, seeking the origin in distant alleys, many of them dead ends, most of them cold, lonely and silent. After a while, he begins to realize that the sound has to come from some point above him, and he begins to search the windows of the houses for signs of life.

As he halts below a balcony- no, an alcove of sorts? The sound follows suit a moment later, its faint lament but an echo.

And then silence.

“Zahi?” he calls out softly. His voice bounces off the stone walls.

This isn’t the balcony to her chambers, but she does play the flute. It makes little sense for her to be in this part of the town, and yet…

After a moment of silence, he senses movement from above; a lithe and relatively short figure skillfully leaps over the edge and connects with the cobbled streets below. If he could still see, he reckons he would see those dark horns of hers reflect the dim lantern light.

The person says nothing, but as she steps closer, he begins to recognize the familiar shape, the curve of her horns, her braided hair, the slender and mobile tail. No, he can’t see, but his inner sense doesn’t fail him; the closer she gets, the more detail he can make out.

“What’s you doin’ here?” she chirps, clicks her tongue, skips closer on agile feet. Within seconds she’s in his space, hands on his robe, peering at him through her cerulean eyes.

“Going for a walk,” he replies with a voice far steadier than he currently feels. Zahi’s a clever people observer and there isn’t much he can get past her. Not that he tries often nowadays but… hiding his identity from her had been a terribly harrowing two years. It feels ineffable to be free to be himself again, even with… even without the love of his creator.

Zahi cocks her head. “It’s kinda the middle of the night.”

If only his blindsense were still strong enough to trace all the intricacies of her expressions, like the way her nose twitches when she’s thoughtful or suspicious, or her brows arch ever so slightly when she’s baffled by something. Which is it now, Tristian wonders. How many pieces of her lovely soul is he missing? It doesn’t help to dwell.

“Well observed,” he speaks softly. “I find the night air clears my head.”

There’s a moment of silence as her fingers lie against his chest, motionless. Finally, her voice picks up again. “Can’t sleep, can you.”

It’s not a question.

“No. I can’t.”

He’s promised the end of his lies and deception. Someday he might fail that promise, but this won’t be the day.

A gentle sigh blows warm air into his face; she leans forward and presses a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I’m taking us upstairs, don’t be alarmed.”

He only has a moment to comprehend her warning, for barely a heartbeat later, she pulls him towards herself, and then the ground is torn away under his feet. He gasps, falling forwards, grasping for her slender shoulders as his pulse just about doubles.

Disorientation passes only as he takes a deep, shaky breath; he begins to understand he’s been dimension-doored upon the strange balcony structure she just leaped from.

… Bards and their spells.

“Come and sit with me,” she offers sweetly.

“I think most people ask _before_ they cast the spell,” he replies, still feeling a little dazed; she only chuckles in response and he knows she’s smiling, although he cannot see. Her soul smiles, and _that_, he feels; it’s hard not to, he reckons one would have to be dead not to feel.

“Am not most people.”

True. He can easily forgive the surprise teleport for the fact that he loves her and her wilder side, including the random impulsive decisions that come with it. Anything for her smile, too; it’s sunlight given form when her days are good, and he’s here to make sure that they always are.

Echoes of a small, scarcely furnished room reach him from the inside; the structure he thought to be a balcony itself is a windowed overlook covered in pillows, scattered books, a small table and her collection of instruments. A hideout of sorts… a home to retreat to.

Once a street rat, always a street rat, he supposes. The way the space is maintained and filled makes him think of the living spaces orphans carve out for themselves in the dark corners of the city, hidden from the public eye but well-known to the city’s underground. 

“I had no idea you have this place,” he muses, even as she softly tugs at his robe, beckoning him to follow her.

“No kiddin’. I use it to hide from you guys.”

Ah. So that’s where she disappears to when she doesn’t feel like being bothered by her advisors. It’s a cozy place; he reckons he wouldn’t have found it under normal circumstances. The alley itself is well-hidden and he doesn’t remember how many turns he took before ending up in this corner.

Now he feels guilty for intruding.

“I know that look,” she mumbles and clicks her tongue. “It’s fine, I took you here. Let’s just pretend councilor Tristian doesn’t know about this, eh?”

His lips twitch, forming a half-smirk of sorts. “No councilor here.”

“Good. Now sit. It’s comfy,” she nigh sings; she’s moved to drop onto the pile of pillows, and now pats the empty space next to her.

His voice rumbles gently as he hums in response, wondering in silence what she aims to do with him in this quiet place. He… trusts her, but they’re still careful around each other. Even she is – in her own devilish way. She’s far more physical with her friends, moving in and out of personal spaces with little regard for privacy. The same cannot be said for her interactions with him; she likes touching him, but he knows that she holds back.

And so he sits.

… It _is_ very comfortable. If only he knew why she’s out here at this ungodly hour, playing melancholic pieces on her mother’s flute. Perhaps…

“Can’t you sleep either?” he blurts as the thought hits him.

“Aye,” she responds nonchalantly. Her presence next to him shifts until she’s settled against the wall, and while he’s busy worrying about her sleep, she reaches out to his shoulders with both hands – and pulls.

Unprepared, he resists; gasping softly. Startled.

The pressure drops. 

“Relax,” she pleads sweetly. There’s warmth in her voice, a warmth so scarcely expressed, he knows it’s reserved for him and no other. “Not gonna do anything you don’t want. Just try it first?”

A fraction of the tension leaves his shoulders. Again she pulls, and this time he doesn’t resist; the tug doesn’t stop until he’s on his back and his head sinks onto her soft stomach and thighs. The motions of her relaxed breathing pass through his body along with his own, soon engulfing him in a soothing rhythm – up and down, over and over.

How warm their bodies are.

How warm…

All these years spent existing, and he has never known how much warmth a mortal body holds. Is he weak for succumbing to it, _longing_ for it? Perhaps all his kin would if they knew. Perhaps that’s why they don’t. He may never return to the warmth of his lady, but if he has this in its stead, perhaps he doesn’t need it at all.

Perhaps…

Although they’re blind, he closes his eyes, the motion itself still a calming effect if nothing else. 

After a long moment, a whisper ousts the silence. “You alright?”

“Feels nice.”

She hums. “You’re so quiet.” A smile tugs at his lips as she brushes a couple of strands from his face with her slender fingers.

“I don’t have much to say right now.”

A soft sigh shifts the Tiefling pillow beneath him. Her hands now cup his cheeks, thumbs drawing soft circles on his temples. It’s so nice…

“Have you talked to Octavia already?”

But then she asks _that_, and the brief moment of contentment quickly slips away.

“Not since my return,” he says sullenly. The circles stop and her fingers only rest loosely on his skin, still warm, still soft – but also forcing awareness of the words she has spoken. “I can’t forget what she said at the keep…”

The words haven’t left him, although he and Octavia had been… close? Friends. He wants to think they were friends, even if the knowledge of having ruined yet another good thing all by himself is beyond painful.

Her voice – it stings each time he remembers, cutting, scathing. _Oh, poor you. Truly a fate much worse than slavery._

Yes, telling a mortal being – a former slave, no less - that he’d rather serve the harbinger of a thousand years of suffering than remain mortal himself is perhaps…

_Entitled_, he thinks bitterly.

Entitled, arrogant, prideful. All his sins, so obvious before him now.

“You should talk to her,” Zahi says warmly, interrupting his thoughts. “It will give you some peace.”

Peace…

She would know about that, wouldn’t she? She’s much younger than him, but she’s spent all that time being mortal, navigating their struggles and issues and all the little details he doesn’t understand. All he knows is divinity. For all his knowledge, he knows so very little about being alive. Though he’s willing to learn… if she’s willing to teach.

Perhaps he should just listen to her.

“I’ll try,” he mutters.

The quiet returns, broken only by faint sounds of the city in the distance. This place is so alive during the day… the darkness that fills it now feels like a veil. And in some strange way, his own soul feels like this city at night.

He shifts a little in her lap and she resumes her motions, though her fingers now wander away from his face and soon begin to comb through his fine hair; her nails gently scrape his scalp, not deep enough to be painful and somehow strangely pleasant.

Should that be pleasant? Considering how readily she turned to it…

Human bodies are so strange.

This time she shifts, sinking deeper into the pillows. “Still good?”

He exhales softly. “Never stop.”

The sharp chuckle momentarily shakes his soft resting place and rumbles like thunder in his ears. Something strafes his chin; he realizes with mild bafflement that it’s her tail stretched out over his chest, tip flopping up and down to what he can only picture is the unheard rhythm of music in her mind.

“Sorry. Can’t sit still,” she mutters.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Tristian responds, though his hands catch the hyperactive appendage mid-motion. Almost as if squirming, the tail begins to curl around his fingers, wrists, and palms. “Never been so close to one of these…”

Beyond the curiosity of her appearance, her heritage never mattered much to him, although she is insecure, and rightly so – people often treat her with an appalling lack of kindness. The hostility thrown her way has roused his protective instincts more than once, although he knows she can take care of herself just fine. It’s not that she needs his protection, he just wishes he could save her the pain.

But her appearance… it remains fascinating still. Beautiful in many ways, but unfamiliar. That skittish tail of hers…

He runs his thumb over the velvety skin.

She _squeaks_.

He releases his grip Immediately and the tail slithers from his hands so fast it almost seems to burn his palms on the way.

“That _tickles_,” Zahi hisses, a sharp and indignant tone to her voice.

Oh. _Oh_.

Well, that’s not something he saw coming, but it’s… ah…

She’s _cute_ when flustered. The thing that once drew her to him, and now he somewhat enjoys turning it back on her from time to time. Not intentionally, it just… happens…

“Sorry,” he replies, though he can’t quite hide the chuckle. “Didn’t realize…”

Her tail now seems to coil in on itself, as if to hide from the offensive creature and escape its vicinity. Luckily, he has no intention of hunting it down. If only because his current position is very comfortable.

Zahi leans forward, hand still combing through his hair with pleasant tugs. “Next time you use that… y’know, that spell that gives you these fluffy wings- What’s it called…“

“Angelic aspect?” he offers, raising a brow.

“Yeah, that! Next time you use it, I’m gonna pluck one of your feathers.” She tugs on his hair just sharp enough to border on painful, though it’s just shy of crossing the line and brief enough to _still_ somehow be enjoyable. “And then I’m gonna _tickle your feet_ with it.”

Ah. That… hm. Interesting threat. Zahi certainly doesn’t lack creativity in that department. She seems rather proud of this one, although her continued gentle caresses somewhat ruin the effect, and he still leans into her touch. 

“Ah?” he asks, half question, half chuckle. “During or after the battle?” he then muses with a playful touch to his tone and thoughtfully scratches his cheek.

“During, obviously. Unless you enjoy it, might have to do it after then…”

He blinks, puzzled. Why would he _enjoy_ it…

Her laughter echoes through the room for a short, sweet moment. “You’re so cute when you’re confused, you know that?”

The familiar heat rushing to his face at dizzying speed doesn’t help the situation, flustered as he feels. This conversation has passed between them a thousand times, and yet he’s never quite prepared. “You’ve told me a few times.”

She grins. “Well, it doesn’t just stop being true. I can enlighten you, but I’m guessing the meaning won’t make it better.”

_Well_.

He can’t claim he didn’t know what he was getting into when he approached her on the eve of her coronation. In fact, he was very aware and he had chosen to do it anyway. With that in mind, he takes a deep breath. “It’s something… naughty, isn’t it.”

A light chuckle echoes in his ear and she runs her slender finger along his jawline, sending a brief shiver down his spine. It’s pleasant, but… energizing, somehow. Her voice anchors him when his body will not, to his fortune. “Some people find the act of tickling rather _arousing_, yes. It’s called a fetish.” 

That’s certainly not the definition of a fetish he’s used to, but alright. Zahi’s undoubtedly a greater authority on that front. She sounds so pleased with herself, too… The tip of her tail brazenly pokes his cheek, prompting him to arch a brow in quiet judgment and scathing condemnation.

“Are you contemplating the depth of knowledge you yet have to acquire?” she quips, and proceeds to poke him again. Arching his fingers in a wordless imitation of a tickling motion, however, quickly pushes her to withdraw the offending appendage from his face.

“No tickling! That’s evil. You’re evil.”

“Oh yes, quite,” he returns, voice light. “My name is Tristian, bane of Tiefling tails.”

“Noo, no, that won’t do.” She raises her chin. “By the right bestowed onto Us, Queen Zahira of Narlreach, We hereby dub thee... Tristian, the Tiefling-Tail-Tickler!”

Well, that’s appropriately ridiculous. The tail in question slams into the floor in ceremonious celebration. The silent moment holds for a heavy second, then Zahi starts cackling so loud her whole body shakes beneath him.

“Are you by chance also Queen of Alliterations?” he asks, grinning; her cackle turns to full, rambunctious laughter and he finally finds himself forced to sit up ere the wild shaking jumbles his brain.

“I am _empress_ of… alliterations. Damn, that would’ve sounded better as an alliteration...”

Oh, his silly queen… his sweet love.

His love…

A sudden longing washes over him, an aching pull in his chest; he reaches out for her shoulder, lays his palm on the nape of her neck and draws her in, draws her against himself. There’s no resistance, she nigh dives forward with her arms around his neck and hurries into a kiss, though she still struggles with laughter, holding back bursts of chuckling against his lips.

His lovely Queen, his sweet sunlight.

She smells of strong perfume and soap; it’s not their first kiss by far, but every new kiss feels like the best one yet. He wonders if the experience will ever grow dull, if it even can.

Hopefully it can’t.

She half-way climbs onto him until he has to crane his neck to meet her lips and they tumble into the pile of pillows behind, but his arms keep her locked in place even as they fall and laugh and her weight settles on top of him, her slender tail coils somewhere around his leg (he doesn’t quite have the presence of mind to locate it) and her fingers trace the lines of his neck, his face, his ears-

It’s all too much and not enough all at once and his heart beats in his chest, heavy, hammering, racing.

Perhaps she feels it, or she grows tired, but the heat slows, eases; kisses still grace his lips, slow and gentle, but they taste of warmth and tender love. Only a year ago, had he read these words, they would have made no sense to him – now they do, and _how_ they do.

There is still light in this darkness.

She cradles his face, pressing fleeting kisses where she pleases, decided only by the whims of that unpredictable mind. Sweet, but soon exhausted, one more kiss to his brow with a soft chuckle against his skin, then she lets herself flop into the pile of pillows beside him, leaving him his much-needed breathing room, the space to comprehend. Her fingers remain entwined with his as she withdraws and he rolls onto his side, facing her just as she turns to him with the piercing sensation of her wild gaze. The comfort of silence settles between them, heavy as a warm blanket, soothing as the tentative touch of sunlight at dawn.

It’s peace only for a moment, fleeting and gone by morning, but he will hold on to it while it lasts… and only mourn it once it’s gone.

“Try to sleep?” she mutters, a faint whisper, the wisp of a voice. “I can sing for you. If you need it.”

His eyes close, although he sees nothing and never will again. “I’ll try.”

“I’ll be here.”

She will be. He knows.

The wisp of a voice turns to strings of a melody, the faint traces of a song seeping into the hidden corners of his conscience, soothing the fraying the edges of a frantic mind.

_A five-year-old winterheart in a place called home_

Zahi’s voice carries the memory of a distant time. The love of the hearth and a mother’s embrace, the warmth she now bestows onto him. Traces of sunlight in a heart. This love he knows, though it is but a memory now, for him and for her both.

_Sailing the waves of past meadows of heaven_

And how finely she sings of meadows she has never seen; in the haze of the morning still far away, the mist that drapes over his thoughts, her voice stirs the memories of the wide fields and the gentle clouds in a fuchsia sky. He wonders how he’ll take her to worlds beyond, though he knows he must. Someday he _must_ show her all the beauty of the multiverse, she’ll want to see it all. All the planes. The distant suns. The homes of the stars. The trees as large as cities. The soothing sky of Nirvana.

She must see it all. There is eternity to spend. If his goddess will not have him, he’ll make his own eternity.

And then sleep takes him.

* * *

It’s night still when he stirs.

Dreams were cruel as ever, but the soothing wisps of song trailing his soul from a distance filled him with the serenity to traverse the paths of his mind unfettered by terror. Now that he wakens, he feels somewhat rested for once, though the darkness still clings to him in the cruelest ways.

Himself he finds curled into her side, tucked in between blankets and pillows and still loosely grasping her hand; she’s not sleeping, she’s sitting, a book lying open in her lap, and she hums a somber tune. It’s not the song she sang to lull him to sleep; the few times her voice drifts from melodic hums into words, she sings of a journey coming to an end.

His grasp on her hand tightens.

The humming stops, the book closes next to him and the air displaced by the motion blows a few stray strands from his face. She puts the books aside.

“Morning,” she greets.

“It’s night,” he mumbles, sleep-addled still.

“Only to the boring.”

Of course she’d say that.

“Did you sleep at all?” he inquires, and a part of him recognizes he should probably get up, but he feels too comfortable, too… safe.

“I have too much caffeine in my system to sleep for the next month or so,” she quips, but he feels the quiver of exhaustion, the tendrils of restlessness. He worries; how he worries. Zahi is a lively soul, she cannot hide her pains very well, but she’s slow to trust, and she’s deceptive when she puts her mind to it.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he mutters and sits up, though all that does in the end is giving her the opportunity to pull him back into her lap, taking the space the book once held. This time, he doesn’t resist, too sleepy, too rattled. Too longing for affection.

She ignores his response and rather begins to weave her fingers into his hair once again. “Your sleep didn’t seem very restful.”

The way her hands comb through his hair, fingers softly dragging over his scalp, tugging gently here and there – he sighs, ready to drift right back to sleep. Lovely. She’s lovely.

But he knows she’s waiting for an answer. “It was much better than before.”

For a moment, her motions stop. He hears the faint whish of a tail flopping against the stone wall. She exhales and the gentle combing continues, though something feels different.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Oh.

Talk…

He rolls onto his back while allowing her to continue her caresses and reaches up to her face, fingers brushing against her jaw until he feels her mouth pull into a smile.

“You’re stalling,” she says.

True.

His fingers brush over her lips now, he remembers the touch and the taste and the joy and he feels her smile despite everything. So lovely.

Still, she wants him to talk, and though he once thought words to be the epitome of communication, he knows not if there are words to relay to her the things he now struggles with. And so he mumbles, truthfully, “I don’t know if I can talk about it.”

She’s silent for a long moment as her hands continue their work; he feels her soft palm lay on his forehead and brush back, pulling all the stray strands away from his face. It tickles, just a bit. “Don’t have to if you don’t want. Just thought it might help.”

Help…

He’d like to. He wants to. If only it could all be easier, although he’s not used to being… taken care of like this. His goddess knows all of him, sees all of him, but she never sees him alone. When Zahi looks at him, it feels like the rest of the world has faded away, not just to him, but to her; like there’s nothing else that matters to her, no kingdom, no people, no duties, no paths to walk. It feels selfish and indulgent and yet quite like the most wonderful thing in the world and all that lies beyond. At times, he longs for nothing else.

This feeling… he doesn’t run from it; he’d rather run _towards_ it, chase it if need be. It’s the lack of words that silences him. There are words for all the glories, so many songs in so many languages he speaks, but none quite seem to capture… feelings. They can aspire to describe them, and yet he finds without the memory of it, the word hardly means anything.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he whispers softly. Her ears almost seem to twist in an attempt to pick up the sound. “It’s just… the words…” he mumbles.

“Always the words,” she drawls, a soft sadness to her melodic voice. “I _am_ a bard, you know?” 

Right. His hand slides along the line of her jaw, sinks, and drops onto his stomach. Music touches where words can’t reach, but he can’t sing his feelings to her. The only songs he knows at all are divine incantations.

“Stop giving me that look. I’m not asking you to sing.”

Oh.

She pats his cheek. “I can help you with words.”

Ah.

Well…

He sighs. There’s only one word he knows to describe it, and it’s… burdensome. Hurtful. True to their meaning, the syllables seem to numb his tongue as they roll over it. But they come out, and he feels less burdened in a way. “I feel broken.”

Her caresses cease as she cocks her head to the side and her restless tail flops against the wall once more. “Let’s start by not using that word, alright?”

Huh.

A frown twists his features. “Then… I’m already out of words.”

She snorts, but there’s benevolence to it. “I don’t believe that. Just gotta try really hard. I have faith in you.”

When Zahi has faith in things, other things tend to die. But alright. He scrunches his nose in thought. “Tell me why I shouldn’t use that word.”

“It’s… hm…” she starts but falters, and for a moment they both remain silent. The lack of words weighs on him uncomfortably, and in the absence of things to say, he gently nudges her motionless hand with his own and leans into it with his cheek. The hint isn’t lost on her; it draws forth a chuckle as she continues to stroke his hair.

“Got you hooked, didn’t I? Shame on me.”

It’s his turn to chuckle but he says nothing more as she ponders, and eventually, her tail flops once again. “Broken… y’know, _things_ break. People get hurt. You’re not a thing. Not a tool to discard. You’re a person.”

He’s not sure what to take issue with first, and so he nervously scratches his cheek. “Technically speaking I am a tool of divine will. Us deva, we… aren’t necessarily meant to be… individuals.”

The tail lightly… backhands him, for lack of a better word, not enough to be painful, but getting the message across all the same. “That’s so many layers of stupid, y’know? So you’re not supposed to be… people, but you act and think like people, and I know for a _fact_ that you guys regularly get hot and dirty with mortals and spawn your little golden-haired Aasimar babies all over the place. Basically… you’re people with some extra shine. To me anyway.” 

_Gods_, Zahi-

The burning sensation in his cheeks is nigh scorching against the cold night air and slowly spreads all the way to his ears, to the point he has to fight the urge to hide his face in his hands. The feeling is so strong he momentarily finds himself unable to speak. There’s much wrong with her argument, but he has no words left to refute it. 

“You _know_ it’s true,” she drawls. “You’re a person. And people get hurt. For something to be broken, there has to be a point at which it _wasn’t_ broken. There’s no unbroken state for us. The day we’re born, we fall apart. We lose pieces of ourselves. You feel like you lost something out there, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replies, still reeling from her words but quickly returning to the somber feeling of the night. “I… don’t know how to go back to being who I was.”

Nor does he know if he should.

She snorts. “Tell me if you find out. You can’t go back. It’s like a scar- remember what Octavia said to you about her scars?”

The memory is as stringent as it is scathing; he nods quietly.

“Emotional wounds leave scars, and these won’t go away,” she muses; her hands continue their caresses as she speaks, soothing his continuously restless mind. “Physical scars remind us of the things we’ve survived. In good and bad ways.”

It… makes sense now, but it is a scary thought. As a healer, injuries are things to remove, not to keep and ache over forever. And yet… it seems he has no choice. He bites his cheek and broods, scowling at everything and nothing.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t get better, silly,” she says and gently cups his face. “We lose pieces, but we pick up new pieces as well. From the people we love, the memories we make… people are just. Works of art that keep changing. It’s beautiful.”

Somehow, he finds that he likes the thought of picking up pieces of her to make them his own. A strangely poetic way of picturing the changes mortals experience, but she is a bard; poetry is in her nature. Such a beautiful nature, too. As she cups his face, he turns his head and presses a kiss against her palm, drawing a light gasp from her lips. He smiles.

Beautiful indeed.

Still, the matter at hand quickly rolls back into his mind like a wave on the shore and he feels crestfallen. Somber. “You think it will get better?” he mutters, for once letting all the exhaustion seep into his voice.

“Sure. Takes time, but you got nothing but.”

She seems unbothered, but he can’t help but feel dissatisfied. “I’ve already made you wait so long…”

There’s a heavy sigh and the flop of a tail, and he wonders if he’s said something terrible with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

But Zahi just… chuckles. It’s brief, not quite mirthful, strangely sad, but not mourning. Her hand traces his jawline, passing from his face to his neck. “You think I’m waiting when I do this?”

“Don’t you…” he shudders at the feeling of her touch, momentarily unable to form the words he seeks to speak. “Don’t you want… more than that?”

_Swish_. Her tail brushes past his chin. She’s teasing now, he knows.

“More, sure. I’ve always wanted more. More money, more power...”

Her tone is that of playful musing, but there is a hidden, truthful contemplation to it. The realization that her past pursuits haven’t quite made her happier. Her fingers reach the hem of his collar and begin to trace along the edge of it, barely skirting past his skin.

“I want _you_. In my bed, yeah, but also with me. First part’s probably gonna happen someday considering the way you react whenever I get close, but the second’s already happening.” He doesn’t have the time to react to the ‘bed’ part, for she leans forward and presses a kiss onto his forehead, flexible as ever. “I love you. You’re not a thing, you’re not a servant. I don’t expect a _performance_ from you. Just want you around me.”

Not a thing, not a servant…

It’s hard to picture. Hard to not think of himself as just that. A tool to wield, a servant to direct. She just wants him.

It feels so wrong for his kind, but it also feels good. Few things have felt good in the past two decades. He sits up and finds himself wishing he could look into her eyes once more and see the gentle glow, but all he has is the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand.

Well. That, and eternity.

If he is enough for her, and she is enough for him…

He turns to her, readjusting his place in the pile of pillows. She’s sitting there expectedly, ears twitching. Occasionally, the sound of her tail brushing past the stone wall hits his hearing.

What’s there to say?

The faint, tingling sensation of distant sunrays peeking past the horizon touches his senses. Dawn is coming, and their night together is coming to an end. 

He drops his head. “So you’ll be here even if I… I’m not at my best?”

“I don’t care about your best. Be a sobbing mess. Be kind. Be selfish. Obsess over books. Steal sweets from the kitchen. I’m here for all of that.” Her head falls to the side and he gets the feeling she’s gazing at the horizon, a hint of thoughtfulness to her usually so jolly tone. “That’s love. It has limits, but you definitely haven’t found them yet.” She pauses for a moment, then rustles as she crosses her arms. “And just so you know, with our history that means you’ve got _a lot_ of room for fuckups.”

The noise that comes out of his throat is… hard to describe. It’s not laughter, not quite; if laughter were a thing of relief, then perhaps. It’s short and strangled and cut off by an almost-sob as the emotions of the past weeks suddenly rush over him like a tidal wave. He doesn’t cry, but he pulls her into a tight embrace and doesn’t let go for a long, heavy moment. She says nothing, but her grasp on him is strong, and somehow he feels she’s smiling.

“Thank you for everything,” he mumbles; her ear twitches against his cheek. She pulls back until her warm breath fans against his face. His skin tingles with heat, the heat that scares him yet. Someday it won’t.

Zahi grins. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re stuck with me now.”

“Oh, what a terrible fate,” he mutters. “How will I endure…”

And then there’s the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair and the touch of her skin. For a moment, she’s the world, all he cares for, all he needs.

She’s not waiting. She’s happy.

It’ll be fine.

They part, but instead of fully withdrawing, she flops into his lap with a mirthful, “my turn!” and nestles into the pillows, not unlike a cat claiming a spot to sleep. Her tail curls around her leg as he sits there frozen for a good moment, ere he tentatively runs a hand through her thick hair, brushing against her horns here and there. They’re somewhat rough, but not uncomfortably so. The hair is smooth and soft to the touch and every careful stroke seems to draw her deeper into relaxation.

For all her jolly nature, it can be difficult to get her to relax. He remembers her claims of too much caffeine combined with the feeling of exhaustion, and that he found her out here in the middle of the night.

… before remembering that he technically needs to pray. It’s dawn.

“I need to pray to my goddess,” he whispers, pulling strands of hair from her face. Zahi hums, suddenly sleepy and drowsy. And then she’s just asleep.

Well, that’s… strangely adorable, but also inconvenient.

He leans back, shifting against the wall, and lets his head rest against the cold surface.

Dawn does take a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> The song Zahi sings is Nightwish's Meadows of Heaven because I don't have the creativity to make up song lyrics. The second song that's only alluded to would be Turn Loose the Mermaids, which I am especially fond of. 
> 
> Leave a kudo on your way out if you don't mind, and maybe a comment if it was REALLY nice or something.  
Man idk. I'm tired. I need coffee.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
